


Utterly and Always

by Mnojick



Category: Original - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:37:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnojick/pseuds/Mnojick





	Utterly and Always

Sharing Warmth fics from simplyclockwork-

Snow spiralled down from the grey sky in flurries and fat, thick flakes. They dotted Sherlock’s dark hair with bits of white, lending a softer edge to his sharp face. At his side, John tramped through snowdrifts, arms crossed tight over his chest. His breath emerged from pale lips in warm clouds, shoulders hunched up around his ears.

Fingers moving in rapid twitches as he sent text after text, Sherlock was lost in his own world. By the time he noticed the audible click of chattering teeth from the man to his right, John was curled tightly into himself, shivers dancing along his curved back.

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” Sherlock asked, kicking himself for stating the obvious. But John nodded, tongue darting out to wet his blue-tinted lips. The bottoms of his jeans were dark with melted snow, ice clinging to the laces of his boots. Putting out a hand, Sherlock stopped him.

“Any leads on the suspect?” John looked up at him, the tip of his nose bright red with the bite of the cold. When Sherlock reached out and gripped his arms, John allowed himself to be pulled closer, leaning gratefully into Sherlock’s warm body.

“Nothing yet,” Sherlock replied, frowning at his phone as he rubbed his free hand quickly up and down John’s arm, generating heat. Dropping the phone into a pocket, he sighed and looked down at John. “Why didn’t you say you were cold?” His lips drew down in a soft moue. “You’re hardly dressed for this weather, you should have stayed home.”

John snorted. “And let you have all the fun? Fat chance.” He offered Sherlock a grin, but his teeth chattered, and Sherlock suppressed a fond laugh.

“And people say _ I’m _ the stubborn one,” Sherlock muttered. “You could have at least put on a scarf.”

John shrugged, tilting forward to press his cold cheek to Sherlock’s neck. “Live and learn, I guess.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Take mine, I don’t need it anyway.” Pulling off his scarf, he wrapped it around John’s neck and chin, tucking it into the front of his jacket. John squinted up at him.

“Won’t your neck get cold?” His voice was muffled by the soft blue material in front of his mouth.

“I have my mysterious coat collar and cheekbones to keep me warm, remember?” Sherlock quipped, pulling the collar of his Belstaff up to frame his face against the wind. John giggled, drawing a smile from Sherlock’s lips. “Come, John. The game is on. We can’t let a little snow stop us.” He held out his hand and John took it, letting Sherlock tow him through the snowy streets of London.

From Comfort -- 

John snorted again. “They always are.” He tilted his head, looking Sherlock over again. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock stepped closer to the bed, hands fidgeting. “You were crying out, in your sleep,” he replied, eyes looking anywhere but at John. “I wanted to make sure there wasn’t a crisis.”

John looked away, pressing his fist lightly into the pillow. “Just nightmares,” he muttered, letting out a long, slow sigh.

Silence filled the room, and Sherlock shifted on his bare feet. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak. “Ah, John, if you’re okay, I’ll go—” he began, falling silent as John spoke over him at the same time.

“You could stay—if you want.” John’s face flushed red as he realized what Sherlock had begun to say. “Er, I mean…never mind.” Clicking off the light and rolling onto his side, John pulled the blanket to his chin, pushing his face into the mattress. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

More silence. Then, muttered in the dark:

“Idiot.”

The mattress dipped, and a warm, lean form slipped up against John’s back. Sherlock’s long limbs wrapped around him: a leg shoved between his, an arm draped over his waist. Sherlock’s breath tickled over the back of his neck, and John shivered at the strangely intimate sensation.

They were both quiet, but John knew Sherlock was still awake. His breathing was too quick, and his fingers traced aimless shapes over the skin of John’s stomach. John sucked in a loud gasp when he realized he had been holding his breath.

“So,” he began, craving noise in the suddenly electrified space. “Why _ do _ you have a Spiderman onesie?”

Sherlock laughed, a soft puff of air against John’s skin.

“I bought it for a case,” he muttered, pressing his cold nose into the back of John’s shoulder. “That case with the comic book characters that ‘came to life.’” He sighed, stretching out his long legs until they were pressed together from Sherlock’s chest to his feet. “I bought it in case we needed to attend a convention, but it was never necessary.”

“Right…” John hummed, shifting as Sherlock’s arm slipped under his head. John rested his cheek against the crook of Sherlock’s elbow, heart racing. “So—why are you wearing it _ now _?”

Sherlock didn’t respond at first, and John could almost hear his agitation.

“Sherlock?”

A loud huff of air over his ear.

“I spilled something on my usual sleepwear.” Sherlock finally muttered, sounding very put out. John chuckled.

“What, no spares?”

Another loud huff. “In the wash.”

John grinned and wiggled into the warm heat against his back. “Mm, okay, Spiderman.”

He could almost hear Sherlock’s scowl in the dark and laughed. With Sherlock’s warm hand settled along the curve of his stomach, John closed his eyes and drifted into a nightmare-free sleep.

“Because it’s a _conspiracy!”_ Sherlock spat, venomous.

Dinner is a rather somber affair. John and his mother are not the closest and Harry seems more keen about talking to Sherlock about hair products than trying to broker a peace of some kind.

Afterwards he and John go on a walk around his mother's house.

A gentle snowfall makes for a picturesque walk. What doesn't help is that Sherlock had helped to himself to a few sips of the brandy and is overly giggly and tipsy.

He doesn't even know he's fallen before a strong arm catches him around his waist and lifts him to his feet. John is solid and broad and so very warm. Sherlock's decked out in thick wool coat, thick gloves and a long scarf, John just has on his leather black donkey jacket but he seems fine enough.

His hand feels like a personal sun as it clasps around Sherlock's middle, drawing him close, and Sherlock beings shivering uncontrollably for some odd reason. He can smell John. Wood smoke and sweat and that cologne that's mostly worn off by now. He only wore it to for the family reunion of sorts. John also smells of bitterness and anger and ... and yes there it is, a hint of lust.

Sherlock shivers in his arms.

"Let's get you back to the house." John voice is gravelly and low and full of promise.

***

  
They've been set up in the renovated basement. The bathroom there has a window with a view of the bushes behind the house, but they can still make out the departing sun, the deep twilight setting in. 

John leans back in the garden tub and sets his glass of whiskey down.

"Oh yes....Mmmmm…This is what I have been looking forward to ever since we started this bloody family vacation." His rumble of contentment sends vibrations across Sherlock's back, which is leaning against his the man’s solid, warm chest. Sherlock slips his hand under a bubble and blows gently, sending it a few inches before it pops. He gives a high-pitched giggle which echos across the brick walls.   
  


”Compliments to your sister’s design choices.”

”Thank her eighth rehab program.” John mutters, before realizing his gruffness was coming back into the conversation. “But you’re right this is lovely.” He drifts a hand down to Sherlock’s full ass and gives a strong squeeze, causing the curly-haired detective to yelp.

Under the spray of that wide, square shower plate he'd washed my hair; his touch had been sure and sensuous, not to say purposefully arousing. Before I had a chance to take that further, he'd left the glass-walled stall and poured us this bath.

Whatever ideas I had about a quick march to the super king-sized bed, that was not his plan. "More heat and massage; your shoulder is still tight as a coiled spring. This will help and keep you from waking me up at night with tossing and turning and then padding off to knock back an ibuprofen."

He's right, of course. Skiing asks a lot of my calf and thigh muscles, not to mention my knee joints, but it's my injured shoulder that suffers the most. Sherlock's surgeon's fingers start working their magic before the water begins to cool; deep tissue massage of the damaged major and minor rhomboid under my trapezius muscles is soon causing me to groan obscenely and making me wonder how soundproof this room is. My cock is decidedly interested in the warm, wet, solid body cradling me from behind.

As Sherlock wraps his right hand around my chest to brush slowly upwards, I need to know if this is a tease or not. "If you go much further, I'm going to make you promise that you won't make enough noise to embarrass us both when we have dinner with Mycroft tonight." His is the bedroom next door.

Sherlock huffs and squeezes my nipple with the edge of a thumbnail, making me jerk from the exquisite combination of pain and pleasure. He leans over to put his lips close to my ear. "Me? You're the one who's been biting the pillow for the past week."

"Yeah, well, I'm not about to go full throttle when your parents are in the next bedroom. Bit awkward, being as loud as we are at home, when family members are around is a bit awkward."

"I want to stuff you," John declares, ignoring Sherlock's petulance.

"You sex fiend," Sherlock can't stop his giggles echoing off the brick walls at John's perpetual one track mind.

I can't stop a giggle escaping to echo on the slate walls of this pleasure palace called a bathroom. "I'm sure he'd be happy to find someone to oblige, but there is no need to rub it in that he's unaccompanied on this trip."

"He's too busy stuffing his face with cake. Probably into his second slice of Baumkuchen, or perhaps a Zuger Kirschentorte. He nearly swooned when the chef offered to deliver both for afternoon tea."

"Would you like me to get you a slice?" It would be the height of decadence to feed each other Swiss gateaux in the bath. "I could get some tea for us while I was at it."

Sherlock growls a firm "_no_", dropping his hand under the water to grasp my half-hard cock. "You're not going anywhere until I'm done with you."

By the time he _is_ done with me, I've grabbed a French terry facecloth and stuffed it into my mouth to stop myself from yelling the house down. It leaves a lingering taste of laundry detergent in my mouth, but it's a very small price to pay.

Sherlock pulls the plug, and I manage to clamber out, my legs quivering as he towels me dry.

"You're spoiling me. Let me return the favour," I offer, and not just out of husbandly duty. I will never get tired of watching his enjoyment of what I'm doing to him, really focusing on him and relishing that fact that he's never let anyone see him like this.

"Later, after dinner. Why do you think I gave Mycroft that particular Christmas gift?"

The penny drops. The chalet flat has a small media room off to the side of the sitting room, with a wall-sized screen and luxurious seating — and high-end headphones so that the system can be used when others are sleeping. The DVD Sherlock had given his brother was a rare copy of a 1946 noir detective film, Black Angel, starring a couple of actors I'd never heard of.

"Not one of the classics," Sherlock had explained to Mycroft. "You'll have to learn all the lines on this one."

The thought keeps me smiling all through our lovely candle-lit dinner as we chitchat with Mycroft. After we retire upstairs, we have eighty minutes of high-volume sex while Mycroft is cocooned in the media room, sipping a hideously expensive French brandy and oblivious to anything but the story of a falsely convicted wife (a beautiful blonde played by June Vincent) and Martin, an alcoholic pianist (played by Dan Duryea) who team up to clear her husband of the murder of a singer who had been Martin's wife. We'd watched the film at home before Sherlock had dropped the DVD into a gift bag.

Needless to say, a good night is had by all.

his cock flushed and jutting outward like a bowsprit, has the power to stop him in his tracks and fill his mouth with saliva no matter how preoccupied or busy he is. And the memory of Sherlock’s mouth around him, filled with him, sucking him down – John’s face prickles with heat at the mere memory. Hell, yes, his body would love to do that again. 


End file.
